Weight of the World
by Reaper-Lawliet
Summary: He'd often romanticized love, felt as though it was something unattainable for someone like him. Someone who was caged inside himself, too shy and too sensitive to reach out to other people. He could dream and wax lyrical about it, but never find himself actually experiencing it. Modern AU, Courfeyrac/Jehan.


When Jean Prouvaire is fourteen years old, his parents unceremoniously ship him off to a highly-ranked (and fairly pricey) boarding school about three hours from their white picket fence suburban home because they don't think the public schools are good for their son. They worry, they say, because he isn't making friends.

The truth was, he's too shy for the other children, and much prefers the company of his poems, the ones he'd read in his books or scrawl on his arms with his ballpoint pens. No one paid the scrawny ginger boy with too many freckles and pale green eyes too much mind, and to be honest, part of him preferred it that way.

It isn't until about a month into his boarding school experience that he finally makes a friend, and even then, it's due to a total accident.

On a rainy Tuesday morning, he's pointedly staring at the floor of the hallway as he hurries to his first class of the day when he bumps into someone, which knocks him off balance and onto the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbles quickly. "I should've been paying attention, I…"

"Don't worry about it."

There's a hand being offered to him to help him up, and he takes it. The boy he bumped into is pretty, in a delicate kind of way, with feminine features and blond curls. But a certain fire behind his bright blue eyes says he's anything but breakable.

"I know you," the boy says, "Jean Prouvaire, right? You're in my literature class."

"Please, call me Jehan," he replies quietly. "I'm sorry, I don't quite remember your name…"

"Julien Enjolras. Just Enjolras is fine." Enjolras looks him over, noticing the book he's carrying. "Is that Voltaire?"

"I…yes, it is." Jehan nods, expecting the boy to mock him for reading something so archaic and out of his age group.

"You have good taste in literature, Jehan," says Enjolras approvingly, much to his utter disbelief. "We should talk more."

"Er…yes. Yes, we should," Jehan says, hoping he sounded more confident than he actually felt.

Enjolras nods. "I really should be getting to class. See you around, Jehan."

* * *

He and Enjolras talk a few times after that, mostly about Voltaire and other Enlightenment writers (Rousseau seems to be a favorite of Enjolras'). Jehan recommends a few poets he thinks he would enjoy, and, to his amazement, Enjolras actually looks them up and likes them. But they don't really 'hang out,' until one day, after the one class they share, Enjolras goes over to his desk as he's packing up to leave.

"My roommate and I are having a few friends over tonight to study for midterms," He says, "Would you like to come?"

Taken completely by surprise, Jehan nods, probably a bit too enthusiastically. "Of course! I mean, um…what time? And um…what room?"

"7:30, room 209," Enjolras replies.

It's the first time Jehan has ever spent time with anyone in his age group outside of a classroom setting, and even if it's just under the pretense of studying, he can't help but feel happy. He likes Enjolras, but the idea of actually having a friend? It seems almost too good to be true.

So he arrives at about 7:00, convinced that Enjolras will judge him for the rest of his life for being way too excited about this, but it's not the familiar blond that answers the door. Instead, it's a boy with dirty blond hair who's a bit taller than him, with glasses and a sweater vest.

"You must be Jehan," he says, "Come in."

Enjolras is laying in his bed on his stomach with at least four textbooks spread out around him, looking completely engrossed in the one directly in front of him. He looks up to acknowledge Jehan's entrance before going back to whatever it is he's reading. "You're early."

"I wasn't doing anything, so…"

"It's fine," says his roommate. "My name's Combeferre, by the way. Make yourself at home."

Jehan settles himself down on the cold, hard floor and opens one of the textbooks he's brought- his world history one, and is about halfway through brushing up on the Indus River Valley when the door swings open and a new voice calls out, "Gentlemen, the Courfeyrac and his faithful sidekick Pontmercy Lad have arrived!"

He looks up just in time to see Enjolras throw a pillow at a boy with a mess of brown curls.

"Hello, Courf," says Combeferre. He doesn't even look up from the book he was reading. "You too, Marius."

The boy behind Courfeyrac, dubbed "Pontmercy Lad," looks almost as awkward as Jehan himself, with spiky, jet black hair and his face almost covered in freckles. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as Courfeyrac whines melodramatically about the pain Enjolras had inflicted upon him, looking like he's ashamed to be dragged into his friend's antics.

"Er," he says, "Hi."

"Courfeyrac, Marius, this is Jehan," Combeferre says without looking up, gesturing by way of introduction. "Jehan, Courfeyrac and Marius."

Jehan nods a polite greeting as his eyes drift over to Courfeyrac. He has the brightest smile of anyone he's ever seen, and his warm brown eyes shine with amusement as Enjolras berates him for being a moron. When Courfeyrac laughs, Jehan is almost positive that Marius can see his face heating up.

He'd often romanticized love, felt as though it was something unattainable for someone like him. Someone who was caged inside himself, too shy and too sensitive to reach out to other people. He could dream and wax lyrical about it, but never find himself actually experiencing it. But now, looking at Courfeyrac, whom he had literally never said a word to in his entire life…no, it's ridiculous. This isn't some stupid young adult novel you can pick up at the discount section of CVS, or an inspiring email your aunt sends out about true love. Shaking his head slightly, he shoves the feeling in the pit of his stomach to the back of his mind and returns to burying his face in ancient history.

* * *

Jehan doesn't see Courfeyrac again until about a week later, and by then, the beginnings of his ridiculous crush were in the back of his mind. He's walking down the hallway when he hears someone calling for help from inside the janitor's closet. After standing there for a minute to test whether or not he'd finally gone crazy or not, he opens the door cautiously.

What he doesn't expect to find there is Enjolras sitting on the floor, one arm around Courfeyrac, who looks like he was coming down from a panic attack, judging by the way he's breathing and the tears threatening to spill out of his eyes.

"Jehan!" Enjolras says, and Jehan's almost positive he's never heard anyone sound that relieved in his entire life. "Thank goodness."

"What…" Jehan blinks. "What were you two doing…in the janitor's closet?"

"Our teacher asked us to go get a new light bulb. Then the door slammed shut and wouldn't open." Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac, who Jehan notes is shaking a bit. "Are you alright?"

Courfeyrac closes his eyes. "…G-Getting there. Sorry, I'm…really claustrophobic."

"D-Do you want to go to the infirmary?" Jehan hears himself asking, vaguely aware that this is the first actual sentence he's said to Courfeyrac. He'd been too nervous to speak with him at the study session, and had subsequently been avoiding any situation that may have put them in the same room. The tiny butterflies start flying around in his stomach again, and he internally kicks himself for being such a moron.

But Courfeyrac doesn't seem to notice, or he doesn't comment. He simply shakes his head and stands up, albeit shakily.

Then, he takes a step or two forward and hugs him.

Oh.

Wait, what?

Jehan practically feels his face turning as red as Enjolras' blazer as Courfeyrac wraps his arms around him, resting his head on his shoulder.

"T-Thank you," he says quietly.

Jehan doesn't move. Doesn't breathe, even. The world seems to stop and time goes in slow motion. He looks at Enjolras, totally lost. Enjolras looks just as surprised as he is, judging by how his eyebrow is raised.

But all too soon, Courfeyrac lets go, and Jehan mumbles some kind of excuse about having to go water his cat before bolting faster than he ever thought he could move.

He isn't quite sure what just happened, but he feels ridiculous all the same.

* * *

About a month later, he's sitting on his bed, reading Keats, when his phone vibrates on the nightstand.

**(17:20) [unknown number]:** hey its courf. sorry, got ur number from enj. anyway, im bored and hes being a butt. feel like hanging out?

Jehan almost drops his phone. Composing himself, he responds about a minute later.

**(17:21) Jehan: **Ok. What do you want to do?

**(17:21) [unknown number]:** idk man. anything.

**(17:22) [unknown number]:** meet me in front of my room? 221.

**(17:22) Jehan:** Be right there.

His mind is racing as he pockets his phone, wondering why Courfeyrac is asking him, of all people, to hang out. Is Marius busy, too? And Combeferre? Suddenly, he feels like this is bad idea, going to meet Courf like this. They aren't even friends, really, just a friend-of-a-friend whom he'd hugged out of gratitude four weeks ago.

But he finds that he ends up in front of room 221 anyway. Courfeyrac's hands are in the pockets of his jeans, and his face lights up instantly when he sees Jehan. To his credit, Jehan doesn't melt immediately.

"Hey," says Courfeyrac amiably. "Sorry I just kinda sprung this on you. I wanna get to know you better."

Jehan can only hope he isn't blushing too badly as his eyes immediately drift towards his bright purple high-tops. _This silly crush is going to be the end of me_, he thinks vaguely.

"Oh," is what he ends up squeaking out in a completely undignified manner. He's pretty sure Courfeyrac is judging him pretty hard at this point.

To his surprise, Courfeyrac doesn't comment. "You seem nice, y'know? And anyone who actually manages to befriend Enjolras is definitely something. So, uh, you up for sneaking out?"

Jehan nods mutely, blush spreading across his face.

"Cool. Come with me." Courfeyrac grins and opens the door to his room, which is surprisingly neat, all things considered. "You don't mind going out windows, do you? 'Cause then we might have a problem."

"No," Jehan says quietly.

"I like you already." Courfeyrac sends a smile in his direction and opens his window. "There's a fire escape right here, so it's pretty easy."

There's no screen since the dorms aren't air conditioned, and they could get pretty hot in September and June. Courfeyrac slips out the window first, apparently having done this quite a few times, and helps Jehan down as well. The fire escape in itself is a death trap, ancient and protesting with every step the pair took, but remarkably doesn't just disintegrate by the time they reach the ground.

"Where are we going?" Jehan finds himself asking. His heart is racing, and it's not just from thinking the fire escape was going to give out underneath them.

Courfeyrac shrugs. "For a walk. Come on."

They walk in silence for a minute or so, just wandering around the school grounds at dusk. It was chilly, with the cold winds of November coming somewhat early, so Jehan has his hands pressed into the pockets of his ridiculous yellow jeans. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind the cold all that much.

"So," Courfeyrac says, by way of icebreaker. "What do you like to do, when you're not saving people from janitor's closets?"

"Oh, um…" Poetry, flower arranging, writing, and teaching himself four different languages. All four of which Courfeyrac would judge him for, he was sure. "I, um. I write."

"Write?" Courfeyrac asks, genuinely interested. "Like, stories?"

Jehan feels his face heating up again, so he tries his best to hide it.

"No, I…" he replies quietly. "Poetry."

"Seriously? That's pretty cool. What kind of poems?"

"They're not very good," Jehan says almost immediately.

Courfeyrac frowns slightly. "I doubt that."

"No, it's true, I…" Jehan sighs. "I wish I could capture the sort of emotions and images and _heart_ that the others do. Dante, Aescyulus, Keats, Plath, Dickinson, Whitman…I can't even begin to do what they did."

"But you're still learning, right?" Courfeyrac glances at him. "Everyone starts somewhere, y'know?"

"I…" Jehan pauses. "I suppose."

"Like, I don't think Walt Whitman just woke up one day and _boom,_ pulled _Leaves and Grass_ outta nowhere. Like, he must've wrote some poems he deemed as shitty when he was in high school. But he learned from it. And by the way, I doubt what you have is shitty."

They reach the campus gate by the time Jehan responds in a quiet voice. "You're very kind."

"It's the truth." Courfeyrac shrugs. "If you ever write a poem you think is decent, can I read it?"

Jehan stops in his tracks.

"You want to…"

"Yeah." Courfeyrac smiles. "I'd love to read it."

And Jehan can't help but smile, too.

* * *

After that evening, Jehan finds himself spending more time with Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and their friends. They form an odd group, but they sort of work, even when Marius makes the mistake of dressing up as Napoleon for Halloween and Enjolras doesn't speak to him for a month and a half. And for the first time in a God-knows-how-long, Jehan finds himself happy. The ridiculous crush he has on Courfeyrac never quite disappears, but he can at least be in the same room as him without making a total idiot of himself.

As luck would have it, they all end up going to the same university. None of them planned it that way, but it just sort of happens.

"The world works in mysterious ways," Courfeyrac had said melodramatically, "and I think whatever powers at be just want us to all be together. It's _destiny, _dammit."

Enjolras threw a shoe at him.

In the beginning of their freshman year, Enjolras forms a social justice club that meets on Wednesday nights at the Musian, the only café within walking distance of their school that closes past midnight. It also has a back room large enough to host a small group of people, which is an added bonus.

Their club is formally called the ABC Club, but nobody but Enjolras and Combeferre actually knows what that stands for, so they name isn't used very often.

They pick up a few members as the weeks go on- hypochondriac pre-med student Joly, the we-don't-know-what-he-is-but-he-lives-with-Joly Bossuet, the hardworking Feuilly, the we-also-don't-know-what-he-is Bahorel, and the argumentative barista who can't afford college, Grantaire, whom Jehan is positive has a thing for Enjolras, is pretty much a member at this point.

One Wednesday evening, however, there's a new face at the Musian, and she's sitting with Courfeyrac.

Her name's Amélie, he explains, and they've been dating for about a month.

Jehan can't help but feel heartbroken, even though there was nothing more than friendship between himself and Courfeyrac.

She actually contributes some valid points to the discussion on welfare, and isn't afraid of Enjolras' infamous staredown. Actually, she looks like she's about to smack him by the time they're done exchanging quips, with her arms folded and eyebrow raised challengingly.

"You get a drink on me," says Grantaire, and Enjolras glares daggers.

Courfeyrac laughs, and Jehan can't feel angry at the young woman anymore, because she makes him happy.

So he compliments her arguments as she puts on her jacket to leave at the end of the night, and she smiles tiredly and thanks him in return.

That doesn't stop the dull ache in his chest, though.

* * *

He's having One Of Those Days, he reflects gloomily, several months later, as he stares at the words written in blue ink all over his arms if they're mocking him.

Sometimes, he gets like this. The world goes from being happiness and music and _alive_ to being dark and dreary, where all he can do is lie in bed and stare at the tiles on ceiling, maybe scrawl some melancholy words onto his bare skin.

Combeferre, bless his patient soul, knows exactly when Jehan gets into one of his Moods. He's gathering his things for his morning lecture before he pauses.

"I'm heading out," he says, "Do you need anything?"

Jehan shakes his head.

"Have you eaten?"

A shrug.

"I'll be back before eleven," Combeferre replies, "and I'm buying you a bagel."

Jehan doesn't watch him in favor of trying to blind himself on the fluorescent lights.

He's not sure how long he lays like that when suddenly, there's a knock at the door. When he sits up, there's a sudden rush of blood to his head and he sees spots dancing across his vision. A wave of dizziness washes over him.

"S'open," he manages.

Of all the people he expected to see in his doorway at that particular moment, Courfeyrac was not one of them.

"Can I help you?" Jehan asks, hoping he didn't sound as miserable as felt at the moment.

Clearly, he did.

"Are you okay?" Courfeyrac asks, dropping his messenger bag on the floor and briskly crossing the room to sit next to Jehan on the bed. All the latter could manage was a noncommittal shrug.

"What's wrong?"

"War, famine, innocents dying, the ozone layer being depleted, hearts being broken." Jehan says, "Among other things."

Courfeyrac frowns. "You know what I mean."

Jehan shrugs again and falls back on his bed.

"Don't you have class?"

"Probably."

There's a silence after that, awkward and pressing, until Courfeyrac decides to lay down next to him. He's unbearably close, and even though Jehan's in a Mood, he can't help but blush.

"What are you…"

This time, Courfeyrac shrugs. "Maybe you shouldn't have to bear the weight of the world on your own."

Before Jehan can figure out what _that's_ supposed to mean, Courfeyrac leans over and kisses him. It's chaste and over far too quickly, and it leaves Jehan somewhere between shocked and convinced that he was dreaming.

Courfeyrac bites his lip. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

Jehan just stares at him uncomprehendingly. He knows things with Amélie didn't work out, but…

"What was…what was that?" is all he can manage to say.

"It was me saying that I like you, and…" Holy shit, did Courfeyrac actually sound _nervous_ about something? "I don't know, you've always been there, and I didn't realize how much you mean to me, I was dumb, I know, and you just looked so sad and it hurt, because you _deserve _to be happy, you're just…"

Jehan can't help but stare.

"Courf," he says quietly.

Courfeyrac cuts off mid-ramble.

"I think you should kiss me again," Jehan says, even more quietly.

And so he does, while the weight of the world lessens on the poet's shoulders.

* * *

**A/N:** This was written for a friend, who wanted Jehan/Courf. I think I got a little carried away? Anywho, I hope I did these characters some justice.


End file.
